Threnodies
by Stormcrown201
Summary: In the wake of Leandra's death, the party go to the Hawke estate to attempt to comfort Artur. They wind up getting a lot more than they bargained for.


**Author's Note:** My first Dragon Age II fanfiction! Please do leave a review and tell me if it's any good or not (in particular, please tell me if I have everyone in character. I tried my best). Also, massive trigger warnings for grief/mourning, body image issues, self-esteem issues, depression, and suicidal ideation.

* * *

 _"Maker, my enemies are abundant.  
Many are those who rise up against me.  
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,  
Should they set themselves against me.  
In the long hours of the night  
When hope has abandoned me,  
I will see the stars and know  
Your Light remains."_

— Chant of Light, _Trials_ 1:1–2

It was a chilly, windless evening in the middle of Harvestmere, and they, the entire band of misfits that they were, were walking through the streets of Hightown in a manner reminiscent of one going to their execution.

They did not speak a word. There was nothing more to say beyond what they had already agreed upon when they had met up at the entrance to Hightown from Lowtown, nor did they want to talk. Their minds were all elsewhere but nevertheless focused on the same point, that point being the matter of how to comfort their friend and leader, who was, yet again, bereaved and despairing. It had been a terrible blow that he had suffered, possibly the worst of the many that he had been dealt since coming to Kirkwall, and it had sent him reeling. They meant to catch him before he fell, but they did not know exactly how to do so.

That they had to try was all that any of them knew. He could not be left to deal with this on his own. He deserved better, especially considering how often he had been there for all of them—how loyally he had stood by their sides no matter what had happened. He had done that for them; now they would return the favour.

They reached the door to his estate. It was shut tight and somehow looked more foreboding and unwelcoming than usual. A few of them hesitated, but Aveline, as might be expected, took the lead, stepping up to the door and knocking firmly. She then stepped back, and if she was at all worried about what was to come, she gave no signs of it. She had already spoken to him once, but that had been at his convenience, not hers. Whether this meeting would go so well could not be known yet.

Eventually, the door opened. Unsurprisingly, it was not Artur Hawke who greeted them, but Bodahn, whose lined, shadowed face gave the appearance of exhaustion and considerable stress. Indeed, in his eyes, there was presently a great fear, like something was happening within at this moment that he could not stop, and he was clinging nervously to the door.

"I'm glad you've come," he said, looking back over his shoulder in the manner of one who was greatly afraid. "Master Hawke, he's—well, he's going to pieces. Sandal and Orana and I can't calm him down. I was going to send for you. I'm pleased to see I didn't have to!"

They glanced at each other, all of them wondering precisely what Bodahn meant by 'going to pieces'. Only Aveline dared ask. "When you say that," she said, "what do you mean, exactly? What is he doing?"

"He hasn't slept or eaten in the week since Mistress Amell died," Bodahn confessed. "Most of the time, he's just been sitting in his room, staring at the walls, but not so long ago he came out and started pacing on the landing. He was tearing at his hair, clawing at his clothes. He seemed to be undergoing some great internal struggle. I have tried to talk to him, but I don't know if he can hear me. Perhaps he might listen to his friends."

"Then let us by," Aveline said. "We will talk to him."

Bodahn needed no persuasion; he stepped aside, and the party entered in silence. Some exchanged nervous glances, then turned their gazes upwards as they passed through the foyer into the main room of the estate. They did not have to search for long to see what Bodahn spoke of.

Artur was, as Bodahn had described, pacing on the landing, back and forth apparently endlessly. He did not look up at the sound of their entrance; perhaps he did not hear them at all over whatever was going on inside his head. He wore his usual finery, but all in black, as might be expected, and his hands were gloved, as they ever were. Several of the party raised their eyebrows to see that most of his face was still covered by the mask he always wore when he was outside, though this was his home.

"He's still wearing that even now?" Anders muttered, rather fearfully.

"He finds it comforting," Fenris muttered back. He was the only one of them to have seen Artur without his mask, though that had ended rather poorly, to say the least, and he knew what that mask meant to Artur from what the mage had told him. It was a sort of comfort object to him, and it shielded his face from the curious, judgemental gaze of others. It was no surprise to him, then, that he was still wearing it even here. Certainly, he would not and could not judge the man for taking whatever comfort he could find.

The mage continued to pace. His hands were indeed clawing at his hair, which was messy and spiky in contrast to its usual neatness, and what little of his body language that could be read through his loose, form-concealing clothing showed that his muscles were tensed, as though he were ready to spring into action. Here and there, he would stop and run his hands over his mask and his forehead and eyes, the only facial features of his that could be seen, but then he would simply return them to his hair and start over again. If he made any noise, the mask muffled it, and the angle of his head prevented them from seeing his facial expression.

But they did not need to. What they could see was enough.

They were about to ascend the stairs up to the landing when they heard a small whimper, and they turned around to see Orana standing near the fireplace. She was shivering, hugging herself tightly, and gave the general appearance of utter terror. She glanced from Artur to the party and back.

Fenris was the first to understand, and he approached her, his manner unusually gentle. "We will calm him," he said quietly. "He is no threat to you, but we will calm him. You have my word."

Orana nodded, but she did not stop hugging herself, nor did she move from her position. "Please," she whimpered. "I'm scared of what he may do—not just to us, but to himself, too."

"He will do nothing," Fenris told her. "We will make sure of that." He stepped away from her and re-joined the party, and together, they slowly ascended the stairs. If Artur noticed them, which he must have for the sound of so many pairs of footsteps was not so easily concealed, he gave no sign of it. They stepped onto the landing and filed out in front of Artur, forming an uneven line, and they looked from one to the other as they attempted to psychically determine who should begin and how. Up close, with a better angle, they could see that Artur looked exhausted, and his facial expression gave hints as to the turmoil that was going on inside him, but with his mask, hands, and arms in the way, they still could not see much.

Their psychic determination was unsuccessful and unnecessary; Artur began. He looked up at them once, almost through his fingers, then immediately dropped his gaze and turned his back on them, facing the chandelier and the lower floor of the estate.

"I've got thoughts," he said, his voice low, strained, and as ever, somewhat muffled by the mask, but clear enough, nevertheless, "crawling like little bugs in my head. They won't stop. N-no—not thoughts. Voices. Not thoughts. I keep hearing the voices, and they won't _stop_."

That was one of the last things that any of them had wanted to hear from him when they had entered, though it hadn't been on any of their lists of things that they might hear from him, to begin with. Once again, several of them shot nervous glances at each other, unsure of how to respond to this information.

"Voices?" Sebastian finally said. "Hawke, what do you mean?"

"From the Fade," Artur groaned. "Demons. Demons of despair. One or two of sloth. A few others. Calling out to me. Tempting me. Tempting me _endlessly_. Maker help me, you can't know what it's like…" He bowed his head and briefly pressed his hands to his temples, as though he was attempting to fight off a headache.

For a third time, they all looked at each other, more nervously yet and now with a distinct undercurrent of alarm. The general impression somehow shared between all of them, even Fenris, was that they never would have associated Artur with the temptations of demons. To be sure, Artur would always talk about these temptations on the occasions when he discussed his stern views on magic and his firm, unwavering belief in the rightness and necessity of the Circles and the Templar Order, and as a mage himself, he was logically always at risk. But he had never seemed like one of _those_ mages to them, the kind who fell prey so easily to possession. Even Fenris had long since grown comfortable enough around him that the possibility had faded into the back of his mind, largely thanks to Artur's extreme self-control and caution with his magic, but now it spontaneously revived, and he took an instinctual step back.

"But how?" Anders asked. "You're awake. The demons can't get to you here."

"I haven't slept this past week," Artur said. "If I have, it was never for long. It was because of the demons that I could not sleep. They are strongest and loudest in the Fade, of course… so awake, I was safe. But I have been awake too long. I am half in the Fade as it is, and I can hear them. Whispers clawing at the back of my mind… 'And the men of Tevinter heard and raised altars to the pretender-gods once more, and in return were given, in hushed whispers, the secrets of darkest magic…'" The quotation was hardly unexpected; Artur's piety rivalled Sebastian's, and he was fond of spouting off verses from the Chant of Light whenever he felt that one suited a situation. This, of course, was no exception. "But if I go to sleep, they will be at their strongest. I can't…" His voice was soft, sounding almost defeated and so very fearful.

Aveline stepped forward. "Hawke," she said gently. "You can't drive yourself into the ground like this. Bodahn said you haven't been eating, either. We'll get you something to eat, then see you off to sleep. You'll feel much better afterwards."

"You are not a mage, you cannot understand what this is like!" Artur said with sudden force, whirling around again and staring hard at Aveline. "You do not know what is at stake here. If I fall asleep, I will be easier prey for the demons than ever, and who knows what I may do then? You do not realise that I have been fighting this battle against possession for a _very_ long time. I have always done my best to hold off the demons, but now… the fight is a losing one, I fear."

"That's not true!" Isabela said, stepping forward and laying emphasis to her words with a sweep of her arm. "You'll be fine, Hawke! You only think it might go bad because you're in such a bad place right now. But you'll be fine!"

"Mages being in bad places _drives_ them into the arms of demons," Fenris reminded her grimly. "He has good reason to be afraid. No doubt his self-neglect is not helping, but his concern is hardly unwarranted."

Artur shifted his gaze to Fenris. Their eyes met, green and grey and both full of regret for things that had happened hardly two months before, things that could not be said aloud, things that it suddenly occurred to Fenris, with a flash of guilt, may have helped drive Artur to this state—not just his mother's death. He saw the grief in Artur's eyes that was not only for his mother, and he swallowed.

"Do you remember, Fenris," Artur said sadly, "when I told you why I hate my magic so much? When I showed you? Do you remember that?"

"It is difficult to forget," Fenris said.

Artur dropped his gaze, hugging himself gently. "Yes. I suppose it is. I suppose the rest of you won't understand if I don't explain. To be brief, when I was still a boy, I had an… accident with my magic. A spell I was casting… went awry and blew up in my face, literally. My father repaired most of the damage… but what remains lies beneath this mask and these clothes. It's no pretty sight."

"You talk as if it mutilated you, Hawke," Varric commented, visibly frowning.

"If extensive scarring can be considered mutilation, then yes," Artur said, and several of the party raised their eyebrows as they finally began to understand. "The scars shame me, and that's why I cover them up. But they are also a perpetual reminder to me of the dangers of magic. I said to Fenris when I told him all this that this was why I hated my magic so much."

Anders also frowned. "That's ridiculous," he broke in. "To hate magic so much because of one accident that you think we should all be locked up and left to the mercy of the templars?"

"There's more to it than that," Artur admitted. "What I said to you, Fenris… I was not completely honest. My accident made me resent my magic, yes, made me much more cautious and afraid of it than I had been before. But the scars… they shamed me so greatly. I was driven to conceal my appearance out of hatred for it, out of embarrassment. And demons… they are drawn to such things, you know. This self-hatred of mine made me even more of a beacon for them than I was before."

Sebastian made a small noise of comprehension, and several of the others looked as if they also fully understood—though not Anders. "They began to come at me, so much worse than before," Artur continued, "tempting me constantly. I had to fight harder than I ever had to not give in… and I knew that it would never end. Because of my magic, I was cursed with these scars, and because of my magic, I was cursed to forever be prey for the demons, always at risk of falling to something terrible, unable to ever fully relax because such a thing was too dangerous. Knowing this… made me despair. Depression followed… more self-hatred… and I became a stronger beacon yet, which in turn only exacerbated my problems. A vicious cycle I cannot break free of. That is why. That… is why."

Why he hated magic so much, why he did not trust his fellow mages, why he revered the templars to the extent that he did, why he believed so firmly in the rightness of the Circles, why he always took such care with his magic and was so obsessed with his self-control that he refused to indulge in any vices, whether that be drinking or gambling. What, too, Carver had meant when he had referred to, with uncharacteristic tact, Artur's 'fits of melancholy'—times when Artur would completely withdraw from everyone, shut himself in his house, and not be seen nor do anything for days. Times, no doubt, when the demons were at their loudest and most powerful. It was all coming clear now, snapping into perspective, and more than a few of them nodded silently, understanding.

The same could not be said for Anders. "But your self-control is perfect," he argued, "and you would never dream of turning to blood magic or falling prey to possession. And you cannot paint us all with the same brush and regard us all as threats just because of _one_ accident—"

"That accident taught me what I had not seen before," Artur said. "Mages are _dangerous_ , to themselves as much as to others. It hardly matters how noble your intentions are—if you are weak, or if something goes even slightly awry, for I had my accident after I only _stepped_ in a puddle of water, and lightning and water don't mix—then you can potentially cause utter chaos. The risks are simply too great."

"That doesn't make you a threat—"

Artur pushed off from the balcony and approached Anders, staring at him with eyes so hard and so deeply shadowed that Anders stepped backwards. "Am I not a _threat_ , Anders?" he asked, quietly, but as he kept speaking, his voice rose. "Look at me! I haven't properly slept in nine days not just because of what happened, but because the demons are too strong! Look at me! I can hear the demons, louder than they ever were! Screaming for me to give in, and it's so easy for me to do so! As easy as it is for any mage! Remember what Fenris said once—how many temptations do you wish to offer a man before he will give in? I'm not the strong mage either of you think I am! I have fought temptation most of my life! And now—now I don't know if I can _keep_ fighting it! And you know what that means, if I fail!"

The word went unspoken, but they heard it nonetheless. _Abomination._ Fenris took another step back.

"Am I not a threat, Anders?" Artur repeated. "Am I _safe_? You always claim that the Chantry and the templars are to blame for people fearing magic, but they have nothing to do with _this!_ Am I not a _threat_?"

For once, Anders had no answer. Artur was right. In this state, at least, he was, potentially or otherwise, very dangerous. Even Anders had to admit that.

Artur turned away again, letting out a soft moan and burying his face in his hands for the second time. For a while, there was silence, and then his muscles suddenly went tense, and his fingers tightened their grip on his face. He moaned again and then whimpered as well—a fearful noise that they had never heard from him and would never have thought they would ever hear from him. They began to look at each other, silently asking each other if one of them should attempt to touch him, offer him a more physical comfort. It was a risky idea, for Artur was often sensitive about his personal space at the best of times, and he might be even worse in this state.

"Maker," he said suddenly, and his voice was barely above a whisper. "So close—so close to becoming an abomination. I _can't_ , I know I can't, I know I must fight, but it's so close. O Maker, hear my cry: guide me through the blackest nights—Maker— _why won't it stop?!_ " His voice was rising again, and he was starting to double up, his hands clawing into his hair once more as he wrangled with the all-too-literal demons that were so close to being inside his head. Whatever they were saying to him now must have been particularly horrifying, for Artur suddenly stood up straight, shouting, "Oh Maker, _make it stop, make it stop, MAKE IT STOP!_ " and he screamed and turned around, and from his gloved hand came a blast of lightning. It seared the floor, and the party jumped back to avoid the sparks.

Artur stared at the black mark on the carpeting, breathing heavily, his chest rapidly rising and falling. A change seemed to come over him then: his brow furrowed over his narrowing eyes, and his hands clenched into fists. He stormed away from where he was standing, heading over almost to the window. When he stopped, he turned around, facing them again.

"Shit!" he growled. "Dammit! I try to save my sister, it blows up in my face! I try to save my brother, it blows up in my face! I try to save my mother, it blows up in my face! I try to have something—something—that could have helped me bear it all—something that I opened myself up for, made myself vulnerable for, exposed all of my weaknesses and _everything_ for—and, through nobody's fault, _it blows up in my face!_ " Yet again, his voice was rising, and now, he suddenly picked up an ornament that was resting on a nearby table and hurled it at the opposite wall, sending it flying over their heads. They jerked and looked around in time to see it hit the wall and shatter, and as they did, Artur screamed, " _Could one thing in my FUCKING LIFE not end in a disaster?!_ "

The party took another step back, by now distinctly alarmed; Artur was not in the habit of screaming like this, throwing things, or even using expletives, and while they had seen him angry or annoyed before, they had never seen him in such a rage.

Fenris, meanwhile, was looking noticeably guilty, though he said nothing. He knew that Artur did not blame him for their aborted relationship and was not trying to guilt-trip him—that he had taken the care to specify 'through nobody's fault' was proof of that—but still, he regretted it. And now, seeing in full the pain that it had caused Artur, remembering the look of utter humiliation on his face when he had asked what would happen to them if Fenris left and Fenris had, not knowing what else to say, said that their night together should never have happened—remembering as well how much damage it must have done to his self-esteem, to make himself so vulnerable only to have it all thrown back in his face—he wished more than ever that he could go back to that night. That he had not panicked, that he had taken Artur's offer to let him help. What a disaster it had been for them both, and it didn't _have_ to be. And still, Artur did not blame him, though Fenris thought that he rightly should. His anger was not directed at Fenris in this instance, but at the fact that all that had been just _another_ thing that had gone wrong in his life.

He was distracted from this line of thought, as were the others from theirs, when the anger drained out of Artur as fast as it had come, and he collapsed to the floor. He said nothing, did not even make a single noise. Finally, when the silence had gone on long enough, Merrill tentatively stepped forward and laid her hand on Artur's shoulder.

Almost immediately, Artur jerked away. "No! Step away from me! I don't want you and your _filthy blood magic_ anywhere _near_ me!"

Immediately, Merrill stepped away, the expression on her face indicating that she had just realised why she should not have been the one to attempt to touch him. It almost went without saying that Artur had always loathed blood magic, and his relationship with Merrill had been plagued with disagreements nearly from the start because of it. He did not trust her, and never had, and she had not fully trusted him since he had refused to give her the _arulin'holm_ at Sundermount. Nevertheless, they had managed to work together—only now, with his mother having been murdered by a blood mage, his antipathy for it was worse than ever. For her part, Merrill could not object, not this time.

Artur stared hard at Merrill for a long moment after she stepped away from him before his head slumped into his chest. He let out another groan and muttered, "The void take blood magic. What has it ever brought other than suffering and death?" The others, wisely, remained silent and showed no signs of agreement or disagreement with his sentiment. Right or wrong, they considered him to be entitled to it, at least for the moment.

But then he continued. "Strike that," he said. "The void take _magic_ in general. I wish it didn't exist."

This time, Anders and Merrill could not quite keep the disagreement off their faces, and even several of the others looked surprised that even Artur was saying such a thing. Artur looked up and saw these expressions, but he only doubled down. "Think about it," he said. "No magic, so no magisters. No magisters, so the elves might not have lost everything—" Merrill hardly looked convinced, but that was not a surprise—"and so you wouldn't have endured what you have, Fenris." Fenris nodded grimly but said nothing.

Artur kept going. "No magisters, so no Blight and no darkspawn, so Bethany would still be alive, so Carver wouldn't be tainted, so we would be _home_. In _Ferelden_. No magic, so no blood magic, so my mother would still be alive! No magic, so Father, Bethany, and I and so many others could all have had normal lives! Need I go on? Maker's breath, how many of the world's problems can be traced back to magic _alone_? How many would be so much better or not even exist if _magic_ didn't exist?" Anders opened his mouth, presumably to object, but promptly shut it again when he saw the look that Sebastian was giving him, the one that said, 'this is no time for proselytising'.

After another uncomfortably long silence, during which time Artur's gaze dropped, and he started staring off into the distance once again, his eyes as empty and expressionless as they had ever seen, Varric said, "It's nice speculating, Hawke, but you know there's not much use. It's here to stay; always will be."

Artur sighed and nodded slowly. His shoulders were slumped, and the way he was resting on the floor gave them the picture of utter resignation even though they could see so little of his body language. "I know," he murmured. "I know. I'm sorry, I… I couldn't help it. I guess… that's not important now. What _is_ important is moving forward. And I have a plan for that."

For a moment, most of the party were thoroughly surprised. Coming in here, they had generally assumed that Artur would be mired in his grief and would need their help to extricate himself. Thus far, his behaviour had confirmed that assumption. After all this, they hadn't expected him to actually have a plan for moving forward, especially not so soon after his mother's death; it hadn't even been two weeks. But soon, the surprise started to fade and be replaced by hope. Maybe, despite everything that he said, things would turn out all right if he had a plan.

"What plan, Hawke?" Aveline urged. "Tell us."

Artur ran his hands over his face and through his hair once again. He still was not looking at anyone in the party. "You won't like it," he said. "My plan is to do something that I should have done a long time ago, to fulfil a promise that I made years ago. But it will take me from you, from all of you, forever."

The hope rapidly deflated. Dismay took its place. "Forever?" Varric repeated, somewhat disbelievingly. "Hawke, what do you mean? Where would this plan take you?"

"You know I've never liked Kirkwall, Varric," Artur said. "And with everything that's happened, it's just got worse and worse. Now—I think the Arishok was correct in calling this city a pustule. Apart from you people, my friends, all that Kirkwall has ever brought me is suffering and death and seeing my family get ripped to pieces. There have been demons, insane blood mages, abominations beyond counting, and so much more. There has been so much injustice, so much pain, and it's just getting _worse_. It is… beyond my ability to tolerate now, after what happened to Mother. I cannot stay here. I must… I _must_ go home."

"Home?" Aveline said. "To Ferelden?"

"Yes," Artur said. "Ferelden. Ferelden will always be my home. It is not without its flaws, but it is a land far better than Kirkwall could ever be. For my sanity's sake, I must go back. Perhaps there I might find the peace that I never have had here in Kirkwall. And once I have gone, I cannot return."

"Where would you go in particular?" Isabela asked. "Or do you mean to wander the whole country?"

"No. Maker, no," Artur said. "I have a particular place in mind. A place I should have gone to a very long time ago. First, of course, I will have to sell this estate; I cannot have its weight around my neck. Then—"

"Is that what your mother would want?" Sebastian asked. "After all you went through to earn this estate, now you would sell it?"

"It does not matter what she would want," Artur told him tiredly. "It does not matter what anyone wants. The only thing that matters is what must be done. I must sell the estate; that will take time. Once that is done, I simply have to book a ship back to Ferelden, go back the way I came. And once I have returned, I will…" He sighed, seeing to steel himself. Then he continued. "I will turn myself in to the templars and enter Kinloch Hold—the Fereldan Circle of Magi."

There was a crashing silence, during which the only sound was Merrill's gasp of mingled surprise and horror. Anders looked a strange combination of distraught and betrayed, as might be expected; the others were in various degrees all caught off-guard and incredulous. Even Fenris looked like he could not believe what he had just heard.

"The _Circle_?" Anders sputtered. "Surely you cannot mean—"

"I mean it," Artur said. "The time has come. You asked me once, when Fenris and we were at the Gallows, why I was not in the Circle myself if I believed so strongly in it. I told you that the only reason was that I still had a family to protect in the city, and I said that if the day ever came when I no longer _had_ a family to protect, not counting my uncle, then I _would_ enter the Circle. Well, the day has come. Mother is gone. Carver is a Grey Warden. I am alone. It is time for me to do what Father should have allowed me to do untold years ago. It is time for me to join the Circle."

"And give up your freedom?" Isabela said, staring at Artur with no small amount of disbelief. "Are you mad?"

"My _freedom_ has not brought me much joy," Artur reminded her. "It never has. Besides, if the demons keep getting stronger and I keep giving ground then—while I don't intend to, perhaps it is best for me to lose the fight inside the Circle, where the templars are close at hand, then out here, where I can hurt any number of innocents. This is for the best for everyone."

Nobody in the party seemed to agree, and various entreaties now issued from nearly all their mouths—pleas for him to reconsider, promises to help him get better and fight off the demons if he would only let them help, suggestions of various alternatives, and so on and so forth. Fenris was the only one who remained silent; perhaps a part of him agreed with Artur's sentiment, though he looked no happier about it than any of the others. But Artur would not be moved, which was no surprise; it had always been exceedingly difficult for them to persuade him to change his course once he had settled on it. In that sense, he was rather like the Qunari.

Eventually, after he seemed to have decided that the pleading had gone on for long enough, Artur said, "Enough. You act as if I am forcing myself onto one narrow path. I am not, not completely. There are options in the Circle."

Anders scoffed. " _What_ options? The only one you have is undergoing the Harrowing! That's hardly an _option_ at all!"

Artur looked at Anders.

He said, "You forget Tranquillity, Anders. That is also an option."

The silence that followed was even heavier than the first, and this time, there was no variation in the party's reactions. They all stared at him, utter disbelief plain on their faces and becoming even more apparent as the implications of what he had said sank in for all of them. Far from having a plan to move forward, Artur was considering the option that would _remove_ all his grief, all his pain—and not just that, but everything else. The _easy_ route, the one with no suffering, the one that would ensure Artur was never _Artur_ and never a mage again. The Rite of Tranquillity.

Unsurprisingly, Anders was the first one to break the silence. The expression on his face now that the initial shock had worn off was almost frenzied, and it was perhaps a wonder that Justice had yet to put in an appearance. " _No!_ " he screamed. "You _can't!_ Don't you dare! Don't even _consider_ it!"

"And why not, Anders?" Artur asked, sounding as exhausted as ever.

"You can't make yourself a _templar puppet!_ You deserve better than that!"

"The templars have nothing to do with this," Artur said. "If I were to be made Tranquil, it would be of my own volition. I would not be forced into anything, and I would be no one's puppet. Besides, what are the downsides?" Anders opened his mouth, then closed it, then did the same again, seemingly unable to comprehend that Artur had just asked that question. Indeed, they all seemed unable to comprehend it. Their utter silence beckoned Artur to go on.

"I wouldn't be a mage anymore, but that's what I've always wanted," he said. His vacant gaze—Tranquil already, in a sense, but the emptiness was _wrong_ , hiding some kind of pain behind it—shifted from the floor to them. "To not be a mage. I wouldn't be myself anymore, but I would still have a purpose, either as one of the Formari or as a shopkeeper for the Circle. I _also_ would no longer be a target for demons, what with my connection to the Fade being severed, so I would no longer be a threat to everyone around me. That seems like a good thing to me. And yes, of course, I would have no more emotions… but that means I would have no more guilt, no more grief, no more despair or self-hatred or four-times-broken heart. It would be so _peaceful_. Yes, maybe _nothingness_ isn't really peace, but none of you has seen inside my head. It would be peace by comparison to what I have now, all this _suffering_ … And I would still have free will and a purpose, like I said. The ability to choose for myself. What's the issue?"

By this point, Anders was so overwrought that he couldn't even speak; he just shook his head and stared at Hawke disbelievingly. Aveline looked a degree less upset, but her voice still trembled slightly as she said, "Are you saying that those templars who made you Tranquil would be ending your suffering, not causing you any?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Artur said. He suddenly snorted. "Oh. I get what you mean. A rite used to bring endless suffering to Circle mages, allegedly, would be used to _end_ the suffering of a mage. Oh, the _paradox_ of it all! The irony!" He laughed, but the sound was wrong—not strong and full, but weak, a little reedy, and somewhat hysterical. The joke, too, seemed a pale mockery of his usual glib humour, and nobody could join in on his amusement. Aveline also shook her head, while Anders looked like he was on the verge of tearing at his own hair.

"It would be good for everyone else, too," Artur mused once he had stopped laughing. "One less dangerous mage who's increasingly liable to turn into an abomination the longer his fight goes on. I'll no longer be around to drag all of _you_ into my messes, and Carver… he will be out of my shadow, for I will no longer cast _any_ shadow. He doesn't resent me like he used to, but still, that should make him happy."

"Maker, _no!_ " Sebastian moaned. He rubbed his forehead. "Hawke, I—I resented my brothers, yes, but I didn't want them _dead!_ Whatever your brother might feel about you, he wouldn't want you Tranquil! What would it do to him, so soon after learning of your mother's death, to learn that you're— _worse_ than dead? Do you not see how warped your perspective on this is, Hawke?"

For the first time, Artur noticeably hesitated, and Sebastian suddenly found himself the recipient of many grateful looks. But Artur collected himself soon enough and said, "Warped, maybe. And maybe Carver would hate it, yes. But it's not about him, or anyone. It's about what's best, what's safest. Besides, I haven't decided either way. I might undergo the Harrowing, or I might choose Tranquillity. I don't know yet. Both have their advantages, so, again, what is the issue?"

Varric stepped forward, looking grave. "Hawke," he said, "if you chose Tranquillity… you'd never be _you_ again."

Artur let out a slight moan. "I don't _want_ to be me!" he said, again with very sudden force. "Not anymore! What am I but a weak mage whose _failing_ self-control is the only thing preventing him from turning into an abomination, a man who everything he touches turns to failure and disaster, a man who has watched everyone he loved die or leave him? What value _is_ there in being such a man? Being Tranquil would not make things better, but it _could not possibly make them any worse!_ Frankly, that's _enough_ for me!"

"But you don't kill yourself," Anders said. Sebastian shot him a disgusted look at his bluntness. "You say your life has no value, but you don't kill yourself."

Artur bowed his head. "I _cannot!_ To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker! And I will not die in sin!" That he had said he _could not_ kill himself carried its own set of terrible implications, but it was his mention of the Maker and sin that caught their attention most.

"You still have your faith, then?" Fenris asked warily.

"It's the _only_ thing I have," Artur said. "I do not know where I would be without it. Dead, most likely."

Ignoring the fact that those three little words had essentially just confirmed the implications of his previous statement, Aveline turned to Sebastian. Indeed, all eyes fell on him. "This might be it. Sebastian," she urged. "You and he have always shared faith. Maybe _you_ can do something."

Sebastian was already gently pressing his way through the group. He emerged from it, came to stand before Artur, took a few cautious steps towards him, and then knelt. Artur looked up at him with eyes full of pain and grief and more else that could not be said, but he did not recoil from him as he had from Merrill. Sebastian caught his gaze and gave him a small, but kind and reassuring smile, and leant forward slightly.

Then he began to chant, his voice calm and even. "O Maker, hear my cry: guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places. O Creator, see me kneel: for I walk only where You would bid me. Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the words You place in my throat. My Maker, know my heart: take me from a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride."

At the third verse, Artur's eyes suddenly shut tight, and he started blinking rapidly as his body began to curl in on itself. But Sebastian continued in the same calm, steady tone of voice as before. "My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval. O Maker, hear my cry: seat me by Your side in death. Make me one within Your glory. And let the world once more see Your favour. For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give.

"Do you remember that?" he asked after a pause, in a gentle tone. "You recited those verses to me when first we met."

Artur nodded slowly. "Transfigurations 12, verses one through six, Andraste's prayer to the Maker before the siege of Minrathous," he said. His eyes were shining. "Yes, I… I remember. I…" His words were cut off by a quiet gasp.

Sebastian waited.

Then, suddenly, Artur's muscles seized up, and he bent over, burying his face in his hands. Finally, it started. The sound was muffled, but they could hear him weeping, hear the grief and guilt and self-hatred being released at last, after such a long struggle. His cries wracked his frame, his shoulders visibly shaking as he let it all out, and Sebastian and the others only waited. It was not easy to listen to, the pain of a man whose life and family had so completely fallen to pieces and who could no longer bear it all, but after what they had previously listened to, it came as something of a relief, and so they let him cry unimpeded. A boy who had grown up too quickly, a man afflicted with something he despised, a son grieving for his mother, and so much more besides; it was time for him to release it.

Eventually, after an unknown length of time, Artur's sobs slowed, and his body became still. He remained curled in on himself, but he looked up from his hands, revealing reddened and wide, puppy-like eyes. He looked terribly vulnerable, in a way that he had never seemed to them before.

Sebastian leaned forward again, catching his gaze. "Hawke," he murmured. "I'd like it if you came back with me to the Chantry. To stay with me there for a little while."

"To—to stay with you?" Artur whispered, hiccoughing slightly. "Why?"

"You need to get out of this place that's so full of ghosts," Sebastian said. "They'll have trouble getting to you in the Chantry. And in the Chantry, I can help you find comfort that you need—in the Maker, in whatever you require. I can watch you, too. And, should the worst come to the worst, the templars will be there to… intervene." He grimaced as he said this but did not desist.

"But, Sebastian, I have to sell the estate," Artur said. "I have to—there are things I need to do, preparations to make. I have to _go_."

"You cannot do anything in this state," Sebastian told him firmly. "I'm not going to try to change your mind on your plan, but you need to rest and eat before you start running around trying to make preparations. More importantly, you need to clear your head. If, at the end of this, you still intend to enter the Circle and potentially become Tranquil… wouldn't you want to do it with your head as unclouded as it can be? Wouldn't you want to confess, do penance if need be, and become at peace in the sight of the Maker before entering the Circle?"

Once again, Artur noticeably hesitated. This time, however, the silence stretched on longer as he considered Sebastian and his words. "You would help me?"

"I would help you."

"And help the templars do what is necessary, should the worst come to pass?"

"I would help them do what is necessary."

"Do I have to come?"

"Not if you don't want to. But the offer is there, Hawke."

There was another pause. It was difficult to read from Artur's eyes alone what he was thinking, but the way he was looking at Sebastian indicated that he was considering what he had said. Sebastian now rose to his feet and offered Artur his hand.

Artur looked at his hand, then his gaze shifted from him to Aveline. For a few moments, they stared at each other, and Aveline suddenly smiled. Artur blinked a few times, then looked at Sebastian again.

Then he murmured, "My choice," and seized Sebastian's hand. Carefully, while Aveline's smile slowly widened, Sebastian pulled him to his feet. On his feet, Artur staggered, and Sebastian put his free arm around his waist while pulling Artur's arm across to rest it over his shoulders.

"Is that all right?" he asked.

"Yes," Artur said. His voice sounded exhausted, but there was an edge of something else in there, as well. He caught Sebastian's gaze again and nodded once. "You know you don't have to do this, not for me…"

"But I _want_ to," Sebastian said. "You deserve it."

Artur made a small noise that indicated he didn't quite believe him, but he didn't press the point. "Th-thank you," he said.

"No thanks needed, Hawke, I _want_ to help you," Sebastian said.

Artur's head slumped into his chest again. "But you deserve thanks, anyway. Not just you—all of you. All that crud that you've had to listen to since you got here… you didn't have to come, didn't have to stay. But you did. Thank you."

"Choir Boy speaks for us, for a change," Varric said. "We all want to help you."

"When I am in the Circle, I will remember you," Artur said. Anders winced again. "You people are the best thing that's ever happened to me. The only good thing that came out of me coming to Kirkwall. I wish I could be… better… for you…"

"Then try to be," Aveline said. "It's worth it, Hawke."

Artur looked at her, then, very slowly, nodded. He caught all of their gazes, saw in their faces their support and their hope for him, and something in his silvery eyes seemed to shift. Perhaps he was now finally realising what it was that he had, but it was too difficult to say.

"Come on," he said. "My choice. Let's go."

The rest of them parted for him and Sebastian to get to the stairs, then followed shortly behind. Fenris was closest to them, and he, after a moment's hesitation, put his hand on Artur's shoulder. But Artur did not flinch from his touch; instead, he looked at him, nodded once, and then looked back down as he and Sebastian carefully made their way back down the stairs. They made for a rather grim procession, but there was also a barely detectable undercurrent of hope, all thanks to Sebastian's efforts. He would soon find that his stock with the party had gone up considerably.

On the lower level, Isabela gave directions to Bodahn and Orana, asking them to bring some changes of clothes for Artur and other necessities to the Chantry. Artur watched the two head up the stairs, then directed Sebastian to lead him into the foyer. They did so, and Artur stared at the door. For a very long moment, his nerve seemed to falter, then Sebastian began to murmur another verse, one from the Canticle of Trials, and Artur suddenly straightened his posture while murmuring it alongside him.

"All right," he said after they were done. "Let's go."

Anders pushed open the door. Artur took a deep breath, then stepped out alongside them into the cool and calm early night.


End file.
